


Bacha Bazi - An Angry Sparrow

by guiltyhousewife



Category: Aladdin (1992), Aladdin: The Animated Series, Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Gang Rape, Gangbang, M/M, Sexual Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-11-03 23:23:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17887082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guiltyhousewife/pseuds/guiltyhousewife
Summary: Aladdin/JafarBacha bazi - dancing boys of luxuryInfo here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bacha_baziAn AU had Jafar been Sultan.Update! New chapterFan art requested - WILL TRADE





	1. Chapter 1

Part One: Procurement

 

Midday in the desert - the most uncomfortable hour for the traders and their wares, but Jafar is comfortable in his soft, kingly-white robes and the shade his servants hold above him as he walks, and that is all that matters. Still, while standing relaxed and unhurried in the middle of the slaver's square, he can't help but notice with some amount of disgust the flop sweat hastily wiped off by the husky man before him, and goads him impatiently.

"Well, this is all you have then?" he says with a dismissing sweep of his imperial eye. 

The man looks aghast at first, to hear what he considers his best merchandise be referred to so critically, but remembers his humility in front of the new Sultan, and bows with a sweep of his hand.

"Yes, my lord. Feel free to select any that please you."

Jafar gives a laugh, amused that his omnipotence isn't understood fact.

"But of course."

He walks down the line of boys arrayed before him, unconcerned that his servants have to rush to keep up with his powerful stride. 

He has decided that he wants bacha bazi of his own.

It's only fitting for a man of his new-found power. He is Sultan, and is more than validated in wanting symbols of his wealth and importance. He has the gold, the palace, the beautiful (if somewhat caustic) bride, and tradition calls upon the gaining of another ageless demonstration of quality and rank - a lovely, charming, dancing boy.

This seller's boys certainly look the part, with their carefully combed and straightened hair shining in the sun, their meek, childish faces turned down from Jafar's gaze, the pink in their cheeks, the necessary-amount of baby-fat in their arms and face to recall the sweetness of youth. He selects a few of them, the ones who seem to have the most potential, and his servants rush them off, until he comes to the end of the line, where a burly, mute-faced Eunuch holds firmly by the collar one boy set apart from the rest, seemingly in the middle of dragging him away.

The slaver rushes over, panting from the exertion, looking worried that such an important client spotted the strange boy he had hoped to hide away. He stood by the struggling youth, looking at Jafar with a pathetically apologetic expression. 

"Ah, my Lord, I had no intention of displaying such sub-par merchandise in front of your worthy eye. Please, let me remove this blemish from your sight, and we shall go back to business, yes?"

Jafar rose his hand to silence the man's shameless pandering, and set his staff on his shoulder, the slaver going rigid in fear of the magic he knew lay dormant there. But Jafar merely moved him aside to get a better look at the boy.

He was older, much older than the other bacha bazis - nearly 18 by the look of him, judging by his greater height and muscle mass. The cut of his toned arms and stomach distinguished him too; dancing boys were supposed to represent the fleeting age when a prepubescent boy possesses the curves of a woman. They were meant to be soft, and feminine, but Jafar could tell with the barest of glances this boy was neither soft nor feminine: his hands were too calloused-looking, his bare-feet dirty, his stomach dipping inward slightly telling of instances of near-starvation. His strong jaw was pointed up at Jafar, not looking away like the others, and his wide mouth was carved in an angry half-snarl. 

Well, this was interesting. 

Jafar ignored the nervous movements and expressions of the slaver as he took time in examining the fumingly silent boy who had yet to drop Jafar's gaze. 

"I thought you people weren't supposed to hit them in the face?" He drolled, using his staff once more, though this time to move the boy's face slightly to the side to better see the large, freshly-purple bruise under his eye. With glee he noticed the disgusted twitch the boy gave, pushing the staff away before being cuffed rather hardly on the back of the head by the stony Ennuch. 

The slaver was quick to explain away the indiscretion, seeing Jafar's upraised brow.

"Oh, of course not. Only the finest, most perfect specimens we sell here. Only, this boy," he spoke the word like it was a household illness, a plaguing insect, "has been particularly hard to handle, so extreme measures were needed."

Extreme measures indeed. 

Jafar's eye was intelligent and observant enough to catch signs of abuse when he saw them. The bruise on his face tallying with the cut on his ribs, the swollen wrist, the sign of blood at the ears and the cracked and bleeding lip spoke loudly of physical victimization. But why? Perhaps, Jafar mused, conventional methods had proved useless with this boy. The other dancing boys were quiet, weak creatures. A sharp word, the gesture of a sword, or even promise of the status they might gain from their position as bacha bazi would be enough to keep them docile and obedient. 

In any case, one would be crazy to purchase such a boy. He was too old, too rough, too scrappy to mold into a beautiful dancing boy. He made a pitiful sight, his ragged clothes contrasting with the pretty, gauzy outfits the other boys wore. 

"What a sad little street rat you bring before me." Jafar said, directing his words at the boy.

"Go to hell!" the boy snapped, breaking his silence as he jerked away from his captors long enough to take a swing at Jafar. 

Luckily, Jafar had expected/counted on such a reaction, and fell back just far enough that the blow missed him. Instantly, the boy was set upon by both the Ennuch and the slaver, as well as other traders who had seen the commotion. To attack the Sultan himself was the highest treason, and an impossibly foolish move for someone so lowly. A thick rope of leather came down upon the boy's back, and fists and feet kept him in the dirt as he was laid into by the swinging instrument. 

There would, there should, be death for such insolence.

"Ah ah ah ah, don't kill him yet." 

The boy's punishers looked up, confused at their Sultan's quiet command, obeying nonetheless. The boy lay still in the sand, though surly eyes slid round to him at his next words.

"Bring me the boy after you beat him."

Though astonished, the slavers nodded and bowed, mumbling obedience. The Eunuch leaned down to gather the boy, dragging him off out of sight to be thoroughly punished before being presented to the Sultan himself. 

Jafar smiled at the questioning eyes as he made his way back to his royal litter, amused at his own eccentricity.

Yes, the boy was damaged. Yes, there were millions of better, more refined dancing boys to be had and coveted. But something in those large, dark eyes, heavily lashed and heavy with passion excited his curiosity. He'd make him into a proper bacha bazi yet. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Technically it is the palace slave trainer who is responsible for direct bacha bazi-training. He would diligently and meticulously mold the purchased-boys into worthy entertainment of the Sultan and his associates. He was hard man, with a pitiless eye, carrying a large, knobbed stick that whacked errant backs and knees into correct positions for dancing, cracked across the knuckles of those who dared to speak or act out of turn. 

Jafar approved of his methods. 

From him he learned much about his strange boy. He learned the full depth of the boy's obstinate, as grimly and disgustedly reported by the slave trainer:

How the youth would look aghast at the feminine boys in their ornamented robes, refusing to don such garments himself until given a solid beating. 

How during such beatings, he would not cry like the other boys, but raise his head and back, not bending to bodily pain until the last blow would crumple him unmoving to the ground. 

How despite his sullenness to those he hated, he was warm and kind to the other boys, taking the blame for their mistakes, sharing his meals with them, striking a conversation with even the shyest of lads. 

The boy had a warped notion of justice, and with the end of a his stick, the slave trainer tried to impress upon him the reality that justice is relative, and the justice in his world now was not his to delegate. 

He had learned about his purchase too, through his own interactions with him.

For example, Jafar had learned his name.

"I'm not 'boy', I'm not 'slave', just Aladdin." he said defiantly up into Jafar's face. His fists were to his sides, understanding finally the foolishness of attacking the Sultan. Nearby, Aladdin's handlers stood nervously, trying to gauge their ruler's patience with their charge's attitude.

They were almost relieved when Jafar himself swung his staff into the boy's stomach, dropping him to his knees. 

"My dear boy, I could call you dirt and you would be just that - Dirt." 

He let his red magic wash over the boy, and for the first time he saw fear in Aladdin's eyes as his body was involuntarily and painfully twisted back upright, pulled flush against Jafar, So close, Jafar could feel the twitch of constrained-muscles, the sharp hip against his thigh. Thrilled, he tipped Aladdin's chin up with clever fingers. 

He held the boy's face there, devouring the expression in his eyes, until he felt the first spasm of despair in those dark orbs, letting him drop bodily once more to the floor.

Of course he took the boy, multiple times. He was just as much Jafar's bodily-possession as was his wife, his harem girls, and the other bachas .The harem girls, with their regrettably dead eyes, gave like warm dough to him, going where he told them to go, sucking what he told them to suck, moaning when he told them to moan. His wife was satisfying enough as well, though the hatred in her eyes was somewhat tiring. The other bachas cried at first, some keeping the tears inside, but soon learned from the harm girls how to turn desire into power, becoming flirtatious flimsy things quick enough. 

Not his boy.

Jafar, thrillingly enough, had to fight to keep him down on the bed. Not even the threat of his death by the palace guards was enough to make him submit, and when pined and speared by his flesh, he gave such a howl of pain and rage. Flashes of fear giving way to angry denial, the thick mop of black hair crashing and turning widely on the pillows. The tightness around him griped Jafar's shaft in something like pain, and he gasped despite himself, wrapping his long hands around the boy's neck as he drove the unbendable body deep into the mattress. Though sweaty and bruised when he was done, Jafar was immensely satisfied after the end of such a fuck, not quite understanding himself why such defiance, normally a cue for his own anger, excited him so. And predictably, like they all do, the boy fought less with each nightly visit, accepting his reality as much as his pride would allow. 

He knew this was unheard of, so much interest paid for a boy most would never have picked up in the first place, nor deigned to keep when he proved ill-suited for the role of dancing boy. And he'd never make a proper dancing boy, not really. 

The other bacha bazi had already finished their training, performing at parties and meetings held at the Sultan's pleasure, impressing all who attended. 

Not his boy. The slave trainer still struggled to clump together the sand in hopes of refining a diamond. 

Why the unusual-effort, why the dragged-out patience, Jafar could not fully explain himself. Perhaps it is because the fire in the boy's eyes, when Jafar came to visit him at night - the strength of his spirit - attracted him, reminding him in a distant way of his princess-turned-queen, before her own spirit broke. 

He had a feeling that when Aladdin broke, it would be a much more thrilling display. In fact his grand ball planned for the next full moon counted on just that for entertainment. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Part Three: Performance

Jafar looked the faces of the men gathered 'round. 

Fellow-sultans, shahs, chieftains, lords and kings. In Agrabah together, in his kingdom, in his palace. 

Out of fear.

First year or so of his reign Jafar had spent razing his neighboring kingdoms to the ground in an elaborate, impressive show of force. To prove a point. To make a statement. He put fear out into the world, letting survivors of the foreign cities spread the tale of a sorcerer-king, and more clever than insects, other rulers came to his door now with gifts, ambassadors and treaties.

They knew, at least now after so many who dared stand against him fell, that both fighting and fleeing were useless.

It was better for everyone involved to accept his reign as legitimate, to try to gain his favor and friendship. Being courted all week with assuages to his ego had put Jafar in a generous mood, inclined to let everyone leave alive, more or less. But first, dinner that night, and an hedonistic feast, with equally hedonistic entertainment afterward.

His bacha bazis were to be put on display, to the excitement of the kingdoms who shared in the ancient tradition of dancing boys. 

After the plates were cleared by his servants, the long tables removed from the room, the traditional preparations began. Out of his own treasure-rooms were fetched, massive carpets in the richest reds, golds, and purples, laid on the bare ground. Cushions of all textures, sizes and comforts were brought in as well, in various piles and positions against the wall, settees, and ground. Behind a large dark curtain, Jafar's royal musicians tuned their instruments, while servants wandered refilling cups with wine and various spirits. During all the preparations, passed around too was a tall, ornate water-pipe, of which several rulers took lascivious pulls, loosening their tongues and bodies.

Jafar watched with an amused eye as the fools dared to settle into something resembling comfort in his presence. His good will should never be presumed. He distinguished himself by his straight-backed, black and twisted-chair, higher than the heads of the others, to make no small point. 

A general feeling of excitement and pleasure buzzed in the air, hooded under the dark arm of Jafar's hospitality. 

Then, the bacha bazi entered. 

Clothed in impossibly rich and ornate garments, they came with silent, composed faces, a small, secret smile in their eyes. They came with pleasant noises as well, in the silence before the music started: a tinkling of bells around their wrists and ankles, the swish of their colorful and gauzy scarves draped with artistic-carelessness around them. 

They granted graceful smiles to the men whose hands inadvertently went out in unconscious desire to touch them, aware of the pleasing-effect their clean faces, smooth and shining hair, dark lined-eyes and soft skin made. 

And then they danced, danced their complex routine of sexual interest and demureness to the tune of flutes slowly, hauntingly, climbing up and down the scales, the rattle of other instruments interjecting a rhythmic counterpoint. 

Jafar himself was not as entranced and lovestruck by the display as his honored guests were. Yes, he was satisfied with the beauty they adorned his palace with, but his mind was already two steps ahead, planning, waiting, speculating on  
Aladdin's entrance.

Would they have to drag the boy in? Would he cooperate? 

In the expectation of anger, Jafar's fingers inadvertently gripped his snake staff in a white-knuckled embrace, vowing that he himself would beat the boy to death with his own staff if he dared humiliate him tonight.

The music ended, and the boys bowed and left, some staying comfortably but icily in the laps of the more important guests. 

Jafar waited with baited breath, staring hard at the curtain where the bacha bazi had entered, waiting...

The music had stopped its gentle song awhile ago, and several of the seated men now became aware of the silence, though none dared move when their tempestuous host looked so intent and expectant.

Then, without warning or reason, the music started again. 

But this time, it was just a drum, a small drum, not pounded, not beaten, but agitated with a sweep of the hand across the taut surface, a gentle thump, then the sweep once more, building a simple rhythm. 

The curtain moved, thrown open in one startling move, and Aladdin stood there, alone.

Jafar felt the snarl on his face rise, eyes wide as he, and no doubt his guests, took in the boy's appearance.

No scarves, robes, or skirts adorned his most difficult dancing-boy. No traditional garb, no textual symbols of honor and tradition. No, he was blatantly, obtrusively, scandalously bare. Or mostly so. 

He wore only thin, scarlet leggings, stopping above his ankles. Streaks of red paint smeared across his face and arms, his eyes large and bright in their gaudy-framing. It was peasant garb, whore-garb, and in the tiniest, impossible-second before the dance begun, Aladdin fearlessly met Jafar's eyes, and he read the taunting message there.

If I am to be a whore, even a pampered palace whore, then I may as well dress like it. Right, sorcerer?

Along with his vow to slaughter the street rat when given the first, discreet-opportunity, he would also have the palace musicians killed. Gone was the carefully-selected music Jafar himself had chosen, and in its place, the drums were joined by other percussion instruments, so the music itself sounded tribal and savage. His guests looked around in confusion, uneasy with the charged turn of events, but soon they found their eyes drawn back to the boy and his dance.

Jafar too, let the glow on his staff die down in watching the boy move.

His dance, like his outfit, resembled nothing like the bacha bazi before him. Bacha bazi entranced their audiences with their feminine movements, the sway of their hips, the expressive dance of their arms. Aladdin was pointedly unfeminine in his dance. His movements were powerful, erratic yet nubile and clever, without strategy or style, but angry and passionate.

Jafar found himself realizing, that though classless in his appearance and performance, Aladdin's dance was having an effect on those around him. Jafar knew the effect the snap of the boy's hip, the flexible sweep of his leg, the taunt muscles of his abdomen and chest stretching and coiling to follow his body in athletic poses and feats was having on his audience.

He knew it affected them, because it affected him. 

His eyes dropped in pleased satisfaction as he felt desire curl up warmly in his body. He laughed, giving condescending applause when Aladdin drew himself up flawlessly from a split on the ground. The boy's eyes snapped to Jafar's in anger. He did not want Jafar to actually enjoy himself; it would make useless his act of rebellion . However after a moment of internal struggle, a defiant smirk spread on Aladdin's face as he danced forward to Jafar himself, coming almost within hand's reach, before kicking up his heels and moving tauntingly away, drawing attention to the ornaments around his ankles. 

Jafar noticed with surprise there were no bells around the boy's feet, but rather they were strung with bright red feathers, long stemmed feathers, long feathers -

Parrot feathers. 

No, he wouldn't have. 

None would be so foolish as to attack Jafar so directly. But a quick look around him confirmed Jafar's suspicions. Iago was gone, and had been so since last night, he remembered.

Oh, the streetrat would die, and slowly. Only the paralyzing effect of volcanic rage kept Jafar from making a scene, watching with a boiling gaze as Aladdin smiled warmly upon taking a drink of the wine offered to him by one of the seated men, basking in the attentions of the dinner-guests.

With a dramatic slam of the drum, the dance was over, and his lean, dark body shinning with sweat, Aladdin smiled and bowed without modesty. A slight nudge of his arm turned Jafar's attention downward, into the smiling, bearded face of another ruler looking up into his.

"Jafar, I must confess, I have never seen anything like tonight's display. It was truly something special to behold. I daresay you stumbled upon a diamond in the rough with your angry little sparrow and his intoxicating dance."

Aladdin met Jafar's gaze once more, the maliciousness in the boy's gaze blatant, no longer hidden under the sheen of sexual desirability.

Jafar paused, considering, before a slow smile melted across his face.

"Yes, it seems I have."

**********I will write a sequel or more like this, given one or two reviews***************************


	2. Chapter 2

NOTE: I apologize for the wonky spacing - I'm doing this on my phone. Please enjoy! 

 

The night closed upon the cavalcade of genuflection with a humid, palpable unease.  
Jafar's guests could tell that their priceless, painstakingly-gifted treasures, the offerings/pleas for peace the last event for the night, were being received with unveiled disinterest. What do you get the man who could use his magics to own the world, given enough time? But part of Jafar was calculating their worth and therefore respect carefully, even while the majority of his thoughts centered on his boy, his angry little sparrow.The last guest dismissed in turn ushered in the servants who had the room cleared with impeccable speed and perfection.  
Alone in his throne room, unforgivably bright under innumerable torches, Jafar called for his boy, who surely knew it would come to this.  
Again, Aladdin surprised him.He expected him to be dragged in kicking and screaming, but no, the boy strode in of his accord, his steady eye contact, made as soon as he crossed the threshold, his clenched fists, and his solitary, confident footfalls across the long stretch of the room a beat, a rhythm that matched his dance from before. He came to a stop in the middle of the room, uncaring of the red smears across his face, hands and chest, the shine of wine on his lips and his vulnerable body bare behind his thin clothing, uncaring to the extent that the little brat actually smiled at Jafar, smiled winningly and charmingly with his chin high and his head tossed back.  
He was proud of himself, and the sear of rage that flashed through Jafar upon realizing that was hot and bright enough to resemble ecstasy.  
This.  
This.  
"You took from me," he said, rising from his throne. His guards shifted closer, restless from the tension in the room. He held his hand up to stay them, and approached his boy.Coldly, he continued, despite the blazing lack of apology in his charge's eyes. "You disobeyed me. You disrespected me."  
"Were you not entertained, my lord?"  
The reared-back smack across his mouth shot his head down and to the side, but he did not drop or stumble from the blow. No, Jafar reasoned, his boy would not be broken so easily.  
Aladdin recovered, running his tongue across his teeth before continuing.  
"Am I to die then, sorcerer?"  
The absolute gall, to say it like a dare, For the first time, Jafar looked into eyes unafraid of death. Instead of feeling impressed, the experience left him determined.  
"No, boy, but you'll be surprised what you can live through."  
He saw the tiniest flinch, the passing inclination to run, and gestured to his guards.  
Only then did Aladdin fight as the guards wrestled him to his knees, bucking and kicking until bodily slammed to the marble so that he bowed in front of Jafar, spitting and cursing. "Quiet, whore! You are lucky our sultan does not have your eyes and tongue plucked from your head for your defiance" one of his more blindly loyal guards ordered. Aladdin uttered a harsh bark of laughter, truly to the wind, and turned his face up at Jafar. "Then let him take my eyes first, before he fucks me, and spare me that at least." Then he laughed. He laughed and he laughed and he laughed. He was still laughing when Jafar pressed the head of his staff to his chest, but stopped short in a gasp that choked its way into a scream when Jafar sent a burst of magic fire through it. His body buckled around the cobra head, as much as it could with his arms held above him, and he screamed behind his teeth, eyes squeezed shut tight. Jafar imagined it must feel as if every layer of skin was being peeled off, one stubborn, bloody, sopping sheet of angry flesh at a time. It lasted barely a moment, but when he drew the cobra away, his boy's head hung, and a line of spit hung from his panting, open mouth. He grit his teeth against a whimper when he realized the agony had finally stopped, and looked up balefully as Jafar continued as if never interrupted. "You will learn to hold your tongue, or you will choke on it." The dark eyed youth breathed hard with no reply, content to have his rebellion contained to glares as Jafar drew a small bottle from his robes and un-stopered it with one quick movement of his long, dexterous fingers. It was a thick, milky white that haloed blue as he gave it a methodical turn in the jar. He grabbed the boy's chin, and using those same fingers to dig into the hinge of his jaw, kept his mouth open as he poured the entire vial within it. "Swallow" he commanded, knowing and expecting full well for his boy to riot against the imperative. He twisted his face as if to spit, but a curt nod from Jafar had the guard's large, meaty hand across his mouth and nose while the other massaged his throat in rough, bruising swipes that forced a choking swallow. He spit when freed, and was tossed distastefully to the floor by the guards. Jafar deigned to kneel next to him, and his hot whipping whisper felt intimate across the skin of his bowed neck. "You were so eager to be the center of attention earlier, pet, let's see how you do with an encore. Your audience from before must surely be dying for it." "What are you talking about? What was that?" the boy retorted hatefully, distracted already by the feelings in his body as the liquid settled in his stomach. "Nothing a whore could understand." he coolly responded, "Now come, I'd hate to keep our guests waiting."

He turned imperiously from the room, not sparing one glance behind him but hearing the guards gather up the bacha bazi to his feet and march him forward.  
Except forcing him forward would be too generous to say. It was more like...holding him aloft.  
Aladdin gave Jafar no second thought as he listened to the cacophony of reactions his body swam in from drinking whatever poison Jafar gave him. He felt his body heat grow, and was loathe for a moment to leave the cool tile he recently was forced to kneel upon. He found himself working harder to breath normally, as his chest seemed sluggish to expand all the way. Something, something was wrong. His stomach clenched spasmodically and he asked Jafar's back.

"What did you do to me, sorcerer?" (he was cuffed here in the back of the head by a guard who didn't approve of his flippant disregard for honorifics)

No response.

Further into the palace corridors, Aladdin concentrating on focusing his slowly blurring vision and straightening his twitching legs, and they arrived into a small den, overflowing with cushions, settees, ottomans and couches. In the center of the heavily-tapestered, rather-gauchely decorated room, sat a giant pipe and decanters of sweet wines with gold and silver goblets. There in the room were men from before, rulers from lands both distant and near, each bejeweled sultan, rajah, or king filling the room with laughter that was rapidly gaining its nervous edge. This was due to the now nude bacha bazi, a few special ones at the very least, and slave girls littering the room as entertainment. Aladdin recognized many from his own training. There was Ejal, a younger boy of about twelve, lean and golden as he fed a portly man candied walnuts from his hands, on his knees on the floor. He saw Samirah, the Persian slave girl in her long, tight curls, laying with practiced faux-comfort in the lap of a local sultan, whose hand busied itself at her breast while he exchanged bawdy stories with the man next to him. He saw Amir, Yuykai, Demeara and more. He saw them look up with pitied recognition, which quickly, almost automatically resolved itself into polished disinterest. He did not blame them.

As Jafar entered the room, all talk hushed, and his servants threw themselves face down in practiced fear.

Jafar smiled, all teeth. "My lords, don't let me interrupt your fun. In fact, I am here to add to it. I've brought you some added entertainment." 

With a nod behind him, the guards brought Aladdin forward to stand in front of the crowd.

"You have my full permission to use him however you like. Take him, beat him, I do not care. Make his body your plaything." He smiled again, with a nod outrageously in the style of demurring, "I insist."

Air.  
Air, Aladdin thought, all I need is more air and I can think. What did Jafar say? He breathed great gasping, stuttering breaths, but still the lightheadedness grew. What did Jafar say? The warmth in his skin was growing to an intolerable level and he thought hatefully of his own clothes. He reached down to pull himself out of his leggings and instantly blessed the cool breeze he felt across his skin.  
A laugh.  
Did he laugh?  
He remembered laughing at some point.  
No, that was Jafar laughing. Someone saying "Oh, and look how eager!" Was that Jafar too? He heard jeers, too, but it was so hard to focus on them. He felt as if his ears were straining through wadded fabric, and he desperately tried to pin words to meaning, and failed, frustrated.  
What did Jafar say?  
Was he here still?  
He tried to turn and instantly groaned, watching the world sink and tilt. No, something was wrong.

"Easy, my boy, come here and sit with ol' Fasoul for awhile." 

He felt his arm grabbed in one meaty paw, and moved towards the one point of stability, anything to keep the world from spinning. "Stop." Was he saying that to the floor crawling up the peripheral of his vision or the hand, maybe belonging to the lap he was pulled into, maybe not, easing his legs open.He tried to resist, tried to close his legs and hide away, but they fell open with the slightest urging. Another hand grabbed his chin, turned his face up. He tried to see who it was, but his vision was a blurred nothing, and he squeezed his eyes shut to try to clear his vision, but all that did was leak a rope of tears down his face. A thumb appraised his cheekbones, ran over the line of his jaw and his brow. "What a handsome little thing." "Such large, dark, sad eyes." No, no not sad, he railed internally- angry. Angry that he couldn't fight, wasn't, wasn't even trying. Angry that his body, the one thing he could count on in this world, wasn't listening to him at all, was instead an overly-warm tangle of senseless limbs. Angry at all the hands touching him, angry at the thumb at his lower lip, angry at himself for letting it slip in and horrified that he let it rub and probe inside his mouth. Hands swathed over his chest, and when fingers found his nipples and began to tug and squeeze, his howl of protest came out as a low, moaned whimper. He didn't need to look down to see bejeweled, kingly hands twisting and rolling his sensitive nipples in covetous fingers - he felt it and his chest began to ache and heat. More horrifyingly, his cock began to take notice and stir from the attention. "There you are, my boy, Almear knows how to treat little tempting morsels like you" Fingers replaced the thumb in his mouth, and when told to, he found himself sucking them contentedly - his skin was on fire, and the touches began to feel good. He closed his eyes and moaned as his body slipped further and further, down under a wave of sensation and out of his control. A hand found his stirring cock and he yelled, folding, to the laughter of those around him. The man didn't stroke him, whoever he was, he played with him. Fingers rolled over the sensitive head, a palm massaged the underside, a few quick pumps and then a teasing pinch on the inside of his thigh. His panted breaths sounded like sobs. A head hoved near his wasted vision, and he begged, wrenching free of the fingers in his mouth. "Please." "Fasoul, have a heart, the little slut did say please." "No, make him beg. I like his begging, it's pretty." He was swimming. He was dying. "Please." "Here boy, you want to beg, you beg for this cock." Something heavy smelling, warm and velveteen was placed at his mouth, and he opened wide, as the hand on his cock began to stroke him in earnest, and all he could think was don't stop, don't stop. His mouth was stuffed full of cock, and he gagged, until a hand at his hair stroked him kindly, and he swallowed around the taste of hot flesh and lapped with frantic swipes of his tongue around the cock in his mouth, suckling and bobbing his head because somehow, it was soothing. He needed to. His mind slipped pleasantly, quietly away. A moan above him corresponded with a tightening hand in his hair, and the hand at his cock sped mercifully. His body contorted, arched, as he simultaneously tried to spear himself further on the cock on his mouth, feeling unsatisfied and accomplished all at once, while also bending into the hands that still toyed with his bruised, oversensitive nipples, all the while trying desperately to buck into the hand at his cock.

A voice laughed  
"Bacha bazi? Ha! That one there is nothing more than a whore."  
A tongue slathered across his ear, making his spine crawl.  
"Don't you listen to them, darling, and you just come right here in my hand, nice and pretty."  
He whined around the mouthful of cock, when his hair was gripped in tight fingers, and his head pistoned across the man's girth.  
"I'm coming, boy, and you better swallow every last drop."  
An eruption of foul tasting liquid filled his mouth, ad he struggled to swallow until the hand at his cock gave him one final, firm pump and he followed it, spilling his own seed with a gurgled wail as come dripped from the corners of his mouth. It felt awful and amazing and he knew then he might not survive this, knew it when he heard the applause and bawdy commentary.  
"There you go, my boy, that's the ticket."  
"He looks fine with some of me on his face."  
"Hand him here, Fasoul, you're hogging him."  
He felt like a plaything when hands exchanged him from one lap to the next, and was not surprised when another cock lined up to take his mouth.  
"Open up, little princess."  
Eagerly, he mouthed the head, bathing it with his tongue as it slid deeper into his throat. Where was his gag reflex? The man's sack brushed his chin. This man was not as kind with his hands, and fucked himself with tearing grips on Aladdin's hair.  
"Pass me that oil, Akar."  
"Who said you get him first, Bashir?"  
"He does. Look, he likes me." Aladdin realized his hands were holding onto the man's thighs as his mouth was fucked, and his spent hips still pushed into the air in small, jerking motions.  
"Needy thing, isn't he?"  
"I've got just what he needs."  
Slick fingers slid down the small of his back and in between his crevasse, circling his hole with a practiced ease before pushing in. Aladdin gasped around the cock in his mouth, hips stuttering upward. Good, this time...it felt good. The finger pet his insides, curling and crooking, and he ground down upon it, much to the amusement of the voice behind him which called "Look at him! He's starving for it." "Well give him to it good, Bashir!" "I think our little dancer here is enjoying the ride too much, aren't you sweetie?" The man whose cock he sucked had less stamina than his other royal peer because he came quickly, and Aladdin needed no one to tell him to swallow. He was so thirsty, his mouth so dry, and his skin, his skin felt like it was burning. He was lost in his body, his outside world cut off by distorted sight and sound, and he swallowed hard before croaking "Fingers. Please." More laughter, an "Of course, precious", and two more fingers were abruptly pushed inside of him, plunging in and out of his body with a force that lifted him from the man's lap. He cried out, to the chuckles of those around him, but soon found himself bouncing on the man's hand, chasing the sweet pressure and stretch inside him, rutting mindlessly. A hand grabbed his hair, wrenched his head painfully to the side. "Don't forget your job, whore." His panting mouth was invaded again, and a slow ache began to build in his jaw. He felt a hot sear across his chest and realized someone came on him. The fingers withdrew, and embarrassingly, he whined at their loss. "Oh don't you worry, I've got something nice for you right here, pet." He was lifted, too easily, his cheeks spread, and then lowered, speared to the jeers of the other men upon someone's cock.

He hiccuped a great sob at the feeling, and mindlessly reached out on both sides, hand finding another man's hand, who then moved him to grip a hard cock he felt compelled to pump and stroke. Someone grabbed his other hand and placed it upon another shaft, and he was working both hands while mewling and gasping on the feeling of being deliciously full, to the point where his back straightened and he knew, that at another time, this would be too much, too much stretch too fast, but now it was an addicted, blissed-out agony, a feeling doubled when a hand found his cock again and stroked the oversensitive-skin. His own hands sped on the cocks around him, and the overpowering smell of hot, sweaty man flooded his senses. A pleasant static built in the back of his head.  
Another rope of come hit him in the chest, and his head fell back against the neck of the man who bounced him in his lap. The man's grunts were close, and he heard the cursed  
"tight, so tight" close to his own ear. He tried to arch into the petting between his legs but someone held his hips and he thrashed at the excess of sensation as he was teased and coaxed.  
The next spray of come hit him, and the next, and he felt overcaked and overheated with the sticky residue, but accepted come-soaked fingers into his mouth and licked them clean.  
He twitched and jackknifed into his second orgasm, a loud cheer going up, but distressingly, the hand didn't stop playing with his sensitive organ, now sensitive to the point of pain.  
"Stop" he protested, but either his words didn't actually come out, or he was ignored, and he desperately tried to twist away from the sensation. "That's it baby, move on me, so close." The cock in him never slowed, and instead, his hips were griped bruisingly and slammed atop the other man. He wailed as his prostrate was battered, a wail that choked off when the man spent himself inside of him, a warm internal splash heralding his satisfaction Aladdin went boneless, but was give very little reprieve when he fell clumsily to the floor from a strong pull to the side. ."Get that ass up, boy." His hips were dragged upwards while he struggled to free his face from the suffocatingly plush carpet. "Farim's turn" was his only warning before another fat cock head pushed insistently at his exposed and shuddering hole. Aladdin gasped, twisted his face and pawed at the ground, trying to voice his negation. No, too much..but it pushed achingly slow in all the same, a stretch he felt in his teeth. He dug his teeth into his arm and heaved a sob as another hand reached under him to play with his spent cock. "Noisy little thing aren't you?" "I like the noises, find his spot." "Thirsty, whore?" A splash of wine poured down his face, yanked up by a harsh hand in his hair. He wanted to drink it desperately: his jaw ached and his mouth was dry from panting and crying out. He felt the heat and hair of another man's thighs lining up against his and would have braced for the penetration but was now distantly concerned that his body wasn't responding and moving only sporadically and of it's own accord. For example, his hands shuffled to push himself up, to alleviate the tension on his hair. "What do you want boy, more man? I've got some for you right here." Aladdin knew it was coming, but he still groaned around the cock that was shoved past his slack lips, a groan that deepened and took on a whine when the man behind pushed past his spamming ring of muscles. On his knees made the plunge inside him so much deeper, his thighs quaked. There was hooting and colorful, laviscious commentary as he was pushed and pulled between two lengths stuffing him beyond full. Maybe it was the drug Jafar gave him, or maybe it was his mind protecting itself, but soon he became all sensation, all points of hot, seared, throbbing, jolting raw and swollen sensation. He groaned around the fullness in him, but it was lost to the snap of hips into him, the smack of flesh and wet struggle of his lips and the gagging rebellion of his throat as one after another cock slid in. He was sure he'd never be able to close his mouth again, nor taste anything else. His thoughts subsumed to the voices of the men all around him. "Listen to the whore groan, he loves it." "Our host is quite generous. I'd keep him to myself." "I've been itching to pound this ass since he tempted me with it at dinner." "This is what happens to teases, girls, mark it." "Pass him to me, I'd like a turn." "What a tight ass - he has to be a virgin." "If he was my bacha bazi, he wouldn't be for long." "Go easy Bashmal, you'll wreck him." "The cocky little shit can take it." "Wait a minute, get him on his knees..get him to kneel." Almost automatically, he took the position they handled him into, stating up through come and tears into nothing. "You're going to beg for this, boy." He heard a sibilant slide and then a thunk. "Stick out your tongue and say please." He tried to, swallowed around old come and a feeling of static in his head. Snap! Across his chest the belt seared him and he yelped, going to protect himself with his hands. "Hands behind your back and try again. Stick out your tongue, open your mouth, and say please." There was laughter and a half hearted admonishment or two. Aladdin tried again, garbled the plea with his hands behind his back. He heard the fleshy slaps and knew the man was pleasuring himself in his face. Another slap and he howled his plea. "Not good enough, whore, wider!" His jaw strained and he tipped back his head, finally managing at the same time a half-coherent "please." He got the belt anyway, and sobbed, feeling skin break, then the hot splash of come across his face and in his mouth. Then it became images he tried desperately with his rapidly fading mind was happening to someone else. A pounding from behind, a hand slapping again and again on his ass, cocks shoved past chapped lips, his hole invaded again and again. His arms made to loop romantically around someone's neck as he was lifted and dropped again and again on a cock inside him. A slap to the face. Trying equally desperately to go to sleep. Suspended by his arms behind his head while the man holding him nuzzled his neck while another folded his dangling legs to his chest and fucked him. Again and again and again. And from the corner Jafar watched, watched as his angry little sparrow broke his own wings flying into the bars of his cage. 

**********More fics can be written in this AU given enough interest. Feel free to make requests!***********************


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